llow, with the gilded, ruddy head of an artist of
the Renaissance, received his visitors on the wooden steps which led to
the temporary staging put up for the purpose of painting the roof. The
frescos, representing the principal episodes in the life of William
Tell, were finished, all but one, namely: the scene of the apple in
the market-place of Altorf. On this he was now at work, and his young
_famulus_, as he called him, feet and legs bare under a toga of the
middle ages, and his hair archangelically arranged, was posing as the
son of William Tell.

All these archaic personages, red, green, yellow, blue, made taller than
nature in narrow streets and under the posterns of the period, intended,
of course, to be seen at a distance, impressed the spectators rather
sadly. However, they were there to admire, and they admired. Besides,
none of them knew anything.

"I consider that a fine characterization," said the pontifical
Astier-Rehu, carpet-bag in hand.

And Schwanthaler, a camp-stool under his arm, not willing to be
behindhand, quoted two verses of Schiller, most of it remaining in his
flowing beard. Then the ladies exclaimed, and for a time nothing was
heard but:--

"Schoen!.. schoen..."

"Yes... lovely..."

"Exquisite! delicious!.."

One might have thought one's self at a confectioner's.

Abruptly a voice broke forth, rending with the ring of a trumpet that
composed silence.

"Badly shouldered, I tell you... That crossbow is not in place..."

Imagine the stupor of the painter in presence of this exorbitant
Alpinist, who, alpenstock in hand and ice-axe on his shoulder, risking
the annihilation of somebody at each of his many evolutions, was
demonstrating to him by A + B that the motions of his William Tell were
not correct.

"I know what I am talking about, _au mouain_... I beg you to believe
it..."

"Who are you?"

"Who am I!" exclaimed the Alpinist, now thoroughly vexed... So it was
not to him that the door was opened; and drawing himself up he said: "Go
ask my name of the panthers of the Zaccar, of the lions of Atlas... they
will answer you, perhaps."

The company recoiled; there was general alarm.

"But," asked the painter, "in what way is my action wrong?"

"Look at me, _te!_"

Falling into position with a thud of his heels that made the planks
beneath them smoke, Tar-tarin, shouldering his ice-axe like a crossbow,
stood rigid.

"Superb! He's right... Don't stir..."

Then to the _famu